Night's Fox
by MistOnBirchLeaf
Summary: Foxface's story beginning with the count-down in the Arena. Day One to the her End. P.S. the title's "Night's Fox" because it harmonizes with the phrase "Nightlock," which, as we know, is a story in itself! However, most of the activity takes place in the daytime.
1. Fight? Flight, I believe!

"Seven...six...two...one!" I bolted.

I ran, I panted, I hurried away from the beautiful Cornucopia and "booked it" for the hills.

Where's my district partner? I can't see him anywhere around the Lake. We had made a deal; he'd stick with me until supplies got low. Then we'd split up and rough it in the woods, if there were any. There's woods here for sure.

Did he make it out of the melee? When will the cannons fire? I need water now. The only thing I snagged before fleeing was this pair of boots. They're loose. My small feet are swimming in them.

Pine needles fix that problem, sort of—they wiggle around and shift to different parts of the inner shoe, jamming between my toes and sticking into my socks. I scramble into a clump of bushes to hide myself while I rearrange the annoying clumps.

Is there a brook nearby? I need water to survive—I can't think clearly right now—I'm panicking—I'm terrified. Wait—I can't stop thinking about _I, I, I_. My twin's watching me cower in a bush. She needs to know that I'm alright, that I'll make it past the first day. Will I?

Terror's forcing all rational thought from my head—hysteria's threatening to overwhelm me. Where's the mask of collected reserve that I summoned up for my interview with Caesar? That girl was quiet but intelligent, clever, and sly.

She's not here, I can tell you that now. She's still panting in a bush, shutting her eyes tightly and rocking back and forth, wishing that she were anywhere but here. The audience must loathe me for my lack of control. I'm ordinary, expendable, not powerful, not impressive. I'm going to die...

Breathe, Elaine. Stop rocking. They'll find you if they spot the bushes shaking. Stop. Keep breathing. No, don't breathe! You're breathing too fast! Slow down! Relax! Calm down! Elaine, you're going into histrionics! Your teeth are chattering! Stop chattering, teeth! Breathe! You must _breathe! _No good. Your vision's fading. You're hyperventilating, Elaine. Calm down. Calm down, I say! You must be strong for Rylla!

…

…

…

…

Stop shaking. Relax your clenched fists. Sit up straight. You're still curled up now. Loosen your arm muscles. They'll cramp if you hug your knees any longer. Your legs are trembling. Your whole body is shaking. Breathe.

You must take a moment to think. There's still a chance that you can stay alive in this game. Water first. Then food. You know a few edible plants. Think. Find roots, find what berries you can.

Find a tribute who has food. Bargain with them. Ally with them. Do what it takes to live.

My hysterics die down minutes later. I'm choking on silent sobs of anxious terror. I'm too young to die here like a hunted beast. Wake up, Elaine. This nightmare will end when the sun comes up, won't it?

My realization is that I'm lost. My crazy trek from the Cornucopia and the Lake led me across a small field into dense shrubs, and I'm now sitting under a leafy, broad-trunked tree close to the beginning of the forest.

No one's in sight, but I can tell that the birds further down the hill in the direction of the Lake are quiet.

The screams from the bloodbath died down a while ago; now an uneasy stillness rests over the Arena. The next spurt of conflict ought to happen anytime this day or tomorrow, before everyone gets settled in and figures out their game plan.

Let them hack away at each other; I'm too disgusted by the thought of ripping into a person's arm. I'd rather use my brains to survive.

Examining my nail-marked hands—it seems that I was digging into them with my nails when I was going through my breakdown—it's plain to see that they're attached to skinny arms. Not muscular, not sturdy. The fingers are long and just as slender as my wrists. Hands that routinely assemble electronic bits and pieces to form other electronic devices that fit into bigger systems.

This is it. I'm doomed. I can't forage, I don't know plants, I almost failed the edible plants test, I, I, I. All these failings of _mine_. Where will I start? Sorry, Rylla. Elaine's woefully unprepared for this. All of her inner reserves of practicality have deserted her. This is going to be agonizing...

It took an agonizing eight or nine hours for me to calm down. By the time the sun started setting, I had gathered a few pine cones and a few other nuts. Most of my time was spent scampering about in the general direction of the forest, staying close to the forest's edge for light's sake.

Didn't find any water. Spent the twilight hours panicking, seeing a knife blade's gleam in every flash of sunlight let in through the forest branches. Saw a tribute bearing down on me whenever a shadow crossed my face. Thought I was going insane because I kept hearing my sister's voice in my head, all the things she said to me before the Peacekeepers escorted her out.

_It'll be alright, Elaine. You're smart. The other kids have trained their whole lives to wield a weapon, not their minds. If you can outmaneuver them, I bet you can make it. I love you. Mama and I will be watching you. Play your best._

My best. Doesn't have to be dazzling. Just show the audience that I'm smart enough to make it for a few days on my own, make the best of my situation.

No water the first morning. Woke up to birdsong around what I guessed was three thirty in the morning. The overly-cheery birds were up before the sun, but the sun too was up before me.

I had shivered myself into an in-and-out stupor of a sleep sometime after the anthem of Panem. Had woken up groggy and depressed. The paralyzing fear of yesterday came back in subdued force when my dazed brain remembered where I was.

Spent the first five minutes of my very early wakening clutching my arms, pulling my jacket close to my miserable self. Crawled out from under the bramble bush—truly, it had wicked-looking thorns; my hedge of protection—and spent another five or ten minutes drinking dew from the long, wide blades of grass.

Advantage of Elaine over rest of tributes: light sleeper, therefore likely to wake up every morning early enough to harvest the dew. Yes, I'm being bitterly sarcastic, for as everyone in Panem can see, my prospects aren't cheery just yet.

Those nuts that I consumed last night were sweet and filling. I should go back and gather more. I remember where the trees were. The pine nuts weren't filling though, and it was too much work to gouge them out of the cones. Am I desperate enough?

My overactive imagination's not serving me well—the relative darkness of the Arena is encouraging thoughts of wolves and other beasts—ridiculous thoughts, I hope. One year the tributes had to fight lion-like mutts in order to get to the game-laden forest...

Cautiously walking towards the Lake is my plan: I intend to scout around, locate the Careers, head in the _opposite_direction, maybe snitch supplies. If there are too many of them, I'll have to back off. Which Careers survived the bloodbath? I can't remember.

The low and tense muttering amongst a group of people alerts me to the approaching Careers. There's the tall boy with the sword and the beautiful girl with a silver bow. Will she shoot me on sight if I'm spotted? They're fanning out, all of them, combing the area.

It looks as if they're making a perimeter sweep of their turf before heading back. I'm huddled in a bush (again) and can't tell if I'm visible. I need to see what they're doing...

My stomach is pinching right now. Can't _wait_ it out if there's no fuel to _help_me out. The tall boy barks something at a shorter boy and they head back towards the clearing beside the Lake. Whew. I'm alive still. My flaming hair doesn't blend in well with the scenery, I imagine.

The Careers have pitched their sleeping bags several meters away from their supplies. Half of the supplies are heaped in a large pile. Sneaking around to another clump of bushes at the top of a small slope, I can watch them all from afar. They're eating breakfast even though the sun just barely brushed over the treetops. It looks like they want to go hunting. For tributes.

One boy's stacking boxes onto the other small and medium boxes in what must be the main pile. Most of the Cornucopia's loot isn't wrapped up. Two sleeping bags are in their carrying bags. A sack of something rests against a folded blanket. A single kerosene lantern's on its side. Some sort of tool is lumped in with knives and a few nails. No food yet.

The pretty one, Glimmer, flicks an insect from her knee—she's sitting next to another Career and picking at breakfast. Are those biscuits? They're flat and palm-sized, spread with something dark-ish. Nothing's snatchable, though.

Will have to look more carefully—if they all decide to go out hunting, the camp will be easy pickings for the other tributes in the area. However, the Careers aren't stupid; they probably have considered this, which is why some sort of trap/alarm system will be set up. Too bad.

But before they can finish their breakfast, I back away and retrace my steps to my sleeping bush. My boots, it seems, make almost undetectable tracks, even on dirt. I have to watch out for soft dirt and short grass, though, since even my slightest prints couldn't be completely undetectable.

The fear's coming back now that I know that they're got the Lake. I can't travel far without food and water, and if they guard their sources zealously...combined with their strength in numbers, their camp is unbroachable. Still, my whining stomach compels me to head back along a different route to lessen the likelihood of accidentally stamping out a clear trail.

Watching the Careers is agonizing. They laugh and joke and practice their fighting moves with each other. No need to stand guard—the crippled one's rewiring and activating the mines.

My eyes are wide as I watch him plant them tenderly as a gardener plants seeds—he's placing them at specific intervals at the edges of and at certain points within the clump of supplies.

One giant pile of supplies rests in the mid-morning sun. The mines are live now; the other Careers have stopped laughing and are watching the boy warily and slightly worriedly. He knows exactly what he's doing, though, and makes it back to them alive.

All of us watch as he gestures and explains the path that they need to take to get to certain sections of the supply mound. He demonstrates once again, elaborating upon a simple path that will lead to all sections if taken precisely without blunder.

He says that you'd have to be pretty dense to stomp even slightly on a mine, though; he claims that the spacing gives generous clearance to their pack but not, obviously, to an overconfident dumb tribute that will make a quick, uncalculated dash towards the pile.

The Careers whoop and clap him on the back. One of them tests it out a bit nervously, but with the boy's instruction, makes it out easily. My eyes have been riveted to their footwork: I think that I can reconstruct their steps!

Time to go hunting, Careers. Leave whenever you feel like it: I'll not trespass long.

They don't leave. Well, not all of them, yet. They wait until mid-afternoon. Blast it.

Over the next couple of days, they're gone here and there, though, and I finally feel brave enough to approach their Camp. They like to hunt closer to nighttime with those funny glasses. They come back after a few hours. I wonder who they're stalking?

Right now, they've just jogged away with their canteens and a few cracker packages. I'm alone with my thoughts. Let's try this out.

Shall I make a mad dash for the Lake and hide in the rushes to check the surroundings to be sure? Should I then, if all's clear, find a canteen? Water or food? I'm parched. I'm _hungry_. Food. Then I can wash it down with water.

But what about iodine? Is there something to purify the water?

My foot has poked out of my short, round bush and then two shouts ring out.  
No! They're coming back! The crippled boy's been sent back to guard the camp. Stupid me; I forgot that he can't run. Then where was he these other nights when the camp was unguarded? Was he a scout taking shifts with the others while only three of them went out hunting?

I'm back in my bush completely. You won't even see my hair—I've got my hood on and have sunk to my knees in a crouch, peering at the boy through the almost-bare lower branches of the bush. He's bored but still looking in my general direction. My stomach's making noises.

He's on his feet now, limping towards the Lake. Not facing my direction. Now he's pacing. Something's bothering him. He mutters a couple of names and throws a pebble into the Lake. I'm stuck in this bush for another two hours before he dozes off. It's a light sleep, I can tell.

My nerves are all edgy again and I can hear Rylla's voice in my head chanting "_Careful, careful!" _in her practical manner. Yes, I'm careful. I'm sly, I'm elusive, you don't see me, you can't hear me, I'm walking backwards towards more forest...

_Snap!_A twig's in two under my feet. It was a dry twig too, and thick enough to make quite a sound. I'm frozen—my head's screaming at me to run before the boy wakes up fully. I can't run: I'm paralyzed and stiff with soreness and fear. The boy's not up.

I wait several agonizing moments to confirm that his doze is heavier than I thought.

Sneaking towards another part of the woods is my next move—the Careers will be back in a couple of hours and I need to relieve myself and find more nuts and maybe some berries. Will try again tomorrow.

"Marvel! Hurry up!" "Is Lover Boy with us still?" "Refill the canteens!" They're back.

I'm far from the camp. Their scouting perimeters doesn't reach out this far—they're concerned primarily with a fifty-yard radius and that's about it. All of them roll out their sleeping bags and take turns at first watch, second watch...

They wake early, arrange their belongs, eat a big meal, talk strategy in growls accented with menacing laughter. Bloodthirsty.

The crippled boy's still left to guard the camp. I've already collected my morning dew. My stomach has long-since resigned itself to a dull, fierce ache rather than obnoxious grumbling and stabs of pain. My vision's dull and my senses are fuzzy by now. It's been a few days since the beginning of the Games, and I've subsisted thus far on nuts and these blueberry-like fruits.

I've had to wait for the camp guard to hike off for obvious reasons before I've dared to approach the Lake.

Today I _have _to test out my memory of the Steps. The boy's gone temporarily—I've got five minutes at the most. The coast is clear—it seems that the majority of the non-Careers are in the forest, far from the Cornucopia. My lifesaving boots tread lightly over the green grass and dainty wildflowers.

The golden horn is to my left. The pile is high and full. Locate the lantern. Stand next to it on the right. Three small steps right, two forward, one medium step kitty-corner, one left, aha! A backpack of crackers and dried meat. I stuff my jacket pockets with one small pack of each. Nice shiny labels.

Two steps right, one tiny one forward, all the way to the left until you hit the spare canteens. How many canteens? Three. Blast. They'll notice if one's missing.

Rustling. Twigs snapping. I'm this close to making a sprint back towards the woods in sheer panic—only the very real presence of those mines prevents me from exploding towards the nearest opening in the woods.

It takes all of my self-control and memory to make it back out of this touchy labyrinth to the safety of the woods. And _then _I move faster, trusting the shelter of the underbrush to hide my progress.

Dinner: two one-by-three-inch pieces of thick, smoky jerky. Three crackers that seem to be made of enriched grain with added minerals. The package label says "Hiker's formula." Good for me, then. And nuts of course.

That night I circle around the perimeter of the camp and nestle into some bushes two hundred yards from its edge. I can look down from the slight incline and see a bit of the horn and the Lake, and part of the supply pyramid. Part of me wonders if I'm too close.

Yes I am. I wake up to the sound of footsteps. I'm instantly alert and still as a stone, almost. They're walking towards me noisily. One girl is complaining to another person about how Twelve is still in those forests.

"Cato's going to lead us into the woods after lunch. We need to pack our sleeping bags, canteens, and food for two meals. It'll take a day of walking uphill and downhill since the terrain seems to be roughening out."

How many are going? "We're all going except for Mine-Man. He'll be fine at camp. It's us, a couple of other kids, and Twelve. Lover Boy's going to help us with her." I'll bet. I've seen him up close. He'll probably lose you all in the woods. He's smart.

They go. I stay. "Mine-Man" stays also, grumbling and muttering nervously in an undertone while I wait for him to wander off to do his business or scout the perimeter _again_. Poor guy. He must be as bored as I am hungry. _Again_.

I finish my dried meat and crackers after they've been gone for about an hour. Smoke starts rising from over the hills, from the forest. The camp guard looks frightened and uneasy. He swears when part of the forest, a small speck in our vision, goes up in orange and gold. The fire seems to be heading in a certain direction—it's coming back towards the Cornucopia. Will it overtake us?

No. After fifteen minutes of intense flare, the forest fire subsides unnaturally quickly.

My stomach is rumbling again and I'm lightheaded from lack of water beyond dew. At this rate, I'll have one meal a day with two snacks—nuts and berries. And dew. How long will that sustain me?

I'm now more worried about my stomach than about being discovered by the Careers.

The camp guard and I wait for the Careers anxiously. He's biting his nails and fiddling with his jacket hood's drawstrings. I'm clutching my pounding head and waiting for a yea or nay, a sign to proceed with my thievery.

It's nightfall and no one's back. The guard—I'll call him something nicer than "Mine-Man" and more personable than "camp guard"—went to sleep. He couldn't help it. I was delighted, however, and the apple, jerky packet, protein bar, and long drink from the Lake vastly improved my optimism about the evening's prospects.

Around dawn, I'm up, unable to sleep in even the faintest bit. The sky's bright and clear, the air cold. From yet another vantage point, snuggled into ivy, I'm clutching my stomach. Sharp pains.

Is something wrong? My stomach's cramping unnaturally; it's aching as if I'm hungry, rather than full. In my famished haste, I devoured everything except for the protein bar. Maybe my haste was my stomach's undoing. I roll onto my other side, curled up.

The pains intensify. What is my body trying to tell me? I stagger down to the Lake gracelessly, trying not to whimper as cramps double me over. I've flopped onto my side, curled up tighter than before, overcome by cramps and dizziness.

My head's spinning. I'm seeing the hills fly about, the outline of the trees undulating...

I must have blacked out, because I'm now awake with a sense of blankness. Am I in danger? Should I be frightened? I can't tell; my head's foggy.

A bird takes off from the Lake. I peer at the edge of the water grasses-the Lake's calm. I'm fine. I can do this. I can sit up slowly and take deep breaths. The cold water feels wonderful on my throbbing head.

I need to remember to drink more often. Rylla always told me that a person needs water before they need food. That water's the number one priority. That the body can survive longer without food than without water. She also told me that dehydration causes headaches.

Note to self, Elaine. Drink as frequently as possible.

My stomach's not clenched up and screaming at me anymore-my senses are instead: every stab directed at my tired skull, every shiver of my cold limbs, the drag of smoky air that has drifted our way stinging my eyes. Can't think. I gulp more water.

Can't take it anymore; need a canteen. Outlasting my enemies isn't turning out well for me other than being not _dead_. Can I stand up without falling? Will my stomach start churning? No, I'm fine. I walk towards the supply pyramid in a roundabout manner.

Avoid the sleeping boy-his lame leg twitches constantly. A nerve tremor? Call me lame, but I'll name him "Twitch." Better than "Mine-Man." Walk around the axes. No hatchets for me. I render the steps of my dance as quickly, quietly, and precisely as I can. A handful of dried red fruits-cranberries? They're small. Two dried peaches. They're sweet-smelling and soft. I bet they taste like summer. One canteen. The smallest one there.

A real loaf of bread! No; put it back. Put it back. Let it go, Elaine. Set it down. No! It's _life_. I can go two days with this one loaf! No. No. _No?_ I _need it_. You _want_it, I can hear my not-desperate side of my head reprimanding me.

My skinny body has lost several pounds in the past four days. I need the protein as badly as I need rest and warmth and water. I stand there like a brainless sheep, staring at the loaf in my hand. It's Capitol bread. Soft and crusty. Dry and slightly stale by now, but not much. It has been sealed in a plastic wrap of some sort, resting next to several other loaves.

How long until they consume the rest of the loaves? Wouldn't it be better for me to take one now and maintain extra caution in case they figure out that it's missing? Will Twitch die if they think he ate it? They're not dumb. I bet _someone _counted the loaves, took inventory. Seven similarly-wrapped loaves. Eight in total. Identical in size.

Wait-Elaine, think. You could take all of them and travel as far as possible and hide. If you found water, you'd be fine. They wouldn't know who had taken the bread. _It's _life_, Elaine_!

Too late to scoop them all in my hands: horrible screams are coming from the direction of the fire-scorched acre or so of forest. I can hear someone scream _"To the Lake!" _and I'm almost frozen, paralyzed, with terror. My self-preservation instincts kick in and I mechanically force myself to carefully trace back my steps.

Flee to the woods. _Run! _They're _all_coming back, unless something awful has happened.

I count three so far: Cato, the other boy, a girl. Lover Boy's not in sight. I can hear Cato screaming and thrashing-he's at the edge of the Lake. Everyone else is screaming and wailing and crying out-nothing's following them or attacking them, but they're clearly terrified.

They all suddenly jump into the Lake-a swarm of insects is all over camp. Twitch dives into the water and submerges with the rest of them. The insects leave after a minute-they're groggy from all of that smoke, I imagine.

I'm back in my patch of ivy, frantically covering myself with the leaves in an attempt to camouflage myself. The insects leave me alone-they must think that the tributes have drowned.

Of course they haven't, but it takes Twitch precious minutes to drag them all out of the Lake since they're convulsing and _half_-drowned. What's driving them mad? Cato's growling and thrashing, screaming until his lungs are empty, sinking back onto muddy banks into oblivion. His chest gently rises and falls, his fists clenching and unclenching.

The other boy has passed out too. He's quieter than the girl, who is clutching at her arm-a huge lump is swelling on it. A lump? _Tracker jackers! _That makes sense to me now!

My dulled senses aren't dull enough to leave me without a sense of horror and pity-the Careers are hallucinating. Their worst fears are being played out in their dreams.

Twitch is exhausted over the next two days. They're out cold. He faithfully guards camp and tries to apply medicine to their swollen lumps but they refuse to heal. Cato's in the worst shape. He's awake now and then. His eyes are wild.

I'm perched in a tree, hidden by broad leaves. I've been up in this tree during afternoons, retreating to a different clump of bushes each night. Mornings are my luckiest time of day-Twitch collapses into his sleeping bag around midnight or one and sleeps in until the sun's pretty high in the sky.

I don't snitch any more food though; I use the time to fill my canteen and sneak away towards the hills. Still am forced to resort to berry-gathering and nut-picking: if I take too many supplies from camp, Twitch'll catch on. If I don't find nuts, my stomach will cramp up again from lack of food and protein.

It's mostly empty again, my stomach. But at least, with Twitch asleep and the rest of the tributes-four?-at large in the Arena, I can scurry around the woods in relative safety until noon.

Food level's lower and lower, though. I don't like to think about what will happen in the following days. My initial optimism about the supply pyramid's dimming-Cato's not any more coherent.

The other boy's recovering slowly, shaking and raving to himself about someone named Lynx. No one's eating anything except for Twitch and the boy-Marvel? I can't risk taking anything.

What _did _happen to Lover Boy? Was he killed by the tracker jackers?

Cato's better on the second evening: that means a small break for Twitch. Everyone's miserable, but alive. Marvel's in better shape than Cato, so he and Twitch take turns checking up on camp and guarding the perimeter.

The girl practices hurling her knives. They land in the dirt, on a branch, in the heart of an apple, with deadly finality: she only missed once in all of her practice throws. If she's this deadly when _recovering_ from tracker jacker venom, she's got to be a _terror_when she's completely alert and well.

All I think about now is food, about the Capitol's dumplings, about shrimp fried and breaded, about pork cubes in spicy sauce, about fresh apricots that smelled heavenly, about grapes that were close to bursting. No food left-I snitch another bit of jerky around nightfall and almost get caught by Marvel.


	2. Stayin' Alive

Almost. He didn't see me, or he'd have given chase, but he could have. Luck was on my side that once. And I'm so scared afterwards, I don't dare to sneak back to camp for water until midnight. Thankfully it's Twitch on guard, and he's still sleepy from all of those awful days and nights of watching over his hallucinating companions.

The next day the Careers, mentally and emotionally shaken but livid, set out in search of Twelve, whom Cato swears is still alive.

"She's out in the woods shooting off critters and laughing at us from some tree!" he explodes. The girl rearranges her knives and sneers to herself.

She doesn't care much for the idea of stomping off into the woods looking for an enemy who could be anywhere. That girl from Twelve must be terribly clever and resourceful; she must have found water elsewhere or she wouldn't be alive, much less a threat to the Careers.

_Please, please_, I beg. _Leave camp for just a little bit. I need food. I need food so badly my stomach feels like it's going to turn inside-out on itself. Food. _All coherent thought of my own is as gone as Cato's was when he was writhing and gasping.

Can I last one more day? Can I last another couple of hours without passing out? I'm waiting for them impatiently, desperately. Everything about me screams desperation to the audience, I'm sure, but I can't keep the fear and hope from my face.

When was my last meal? Time's blurred for me. It seems as if I've been starving in this Arena forever. It'd be faster to have the girl gut me with one of those razor-sharp silver blades than slowly fade away.

Can't climb for nuts. The two or three times that I went deeper into the forest while the Careers were out of it, I went back to my nut trees and found that all the ripe ones were higher up in the tree.

So I climbed, but the only ones in my reach were few in number. I hopped down and dragged my weakening body a few more yards to my next tree. Picked a few more nuts. Had to crack them quite a bit away from camp, as usual. Couldn't resist. Ate them right then and there. All of them. Drained my canteen right there too. Hobbled back to camp on wobbling knees.

That was yesterday. And now I'm still relying on the Careers' camp, stranded by my lack of plant knowledge with no hunting skills whatsoever. Should make one more dash for it: I've got at least a half an hour before the Careers come back.

This time, because their numbers are so low, everyone had left. I wait until I can no longer hear their footsteps or their voices because yes, they do talk amongst themselves for quite a few yards. Then I approach the pyramid and contemplate taking as much as I can carry.

I could make it, couldn't I? I could leave and hide in the hills. But they'd find me, wouldn't they? I need water, but how far away is the nearest stream? No, it would have been better for me to make the pioneering attempt as soon as I had snagged that canteen. Unfortunately, I waited, and now it's going to cost me because I'm not strong enough to leave.

A sense of hopelessness engulfs me and I put my tired, heavy head in my hands. _Mama, in this game there are no rewinds. I can't do this. Someone send me a parachute: I'm going to lose this._

No parachute drops down. Go figure. I bet that all the wagers are being placed on Marvel or Cato, and of course, Twelve. She was the one on fire, the girl in the stunning dress. It was so pretty. I could have stared at the rippling gemstone flames all day...

My thoughts are dimmer and dimmer. I turn back and head for the Lake. Water first. Then food. Just like Rylla told me. My feverish brain conjures up the sounds of footsteps and shouts-my hands are shaking and I'm seeing double right now.

Forget the pyramid. Can't trust myself to duplicate the steps correctly. I left the clearing and staggered up the slight slope for twenty-five yards. Twenty-five more yards. Found a soft patch of grass sheltered from the sun by longer, tougher grasses that are as brown as the nuts that I ate yesterday.

When I come to, the sun's higher overhead and my head's unreliable, dizzy. Nausea grips my stomach and I reach for my canteen. It's still quite full. My last sensible act before losing it was to fill it up to the brim.

For some reason, the water of the Lake doesn't require purification tablets: I would have gotten sick a long time ago if it did. Good thing. I didn't snitch any tablets.

I drink the water slowly. My eyes slowly focus when I look at the Lake. It's calm and broad. No breeze. No Careers.

_One more chance. Stand up straight, Elaine. You're still alive, not beaten. Ignore the food. Fill up the canteen again. Then head for the pyramid._

Hunger wins out and I make a light skipping dash for the pyramid. I dance the secret steps with urgency, the cavernous pit within my gut urging me on, faster. At one point I have to hop over something since the Careers moved things around a bit.

My adrenaline pumps my limbs harder and I overshoot the jump.

…

…

…

…

…

My startled yelp escapes my mouth and I stare at the ground as it rises up to meet my booted feet, waiting for a bright flash.

…

Time slows down; my senses are in shock.

…

Nothing happens.

_Step back, Elaine. Now, take one step to your right. That's it._I'm back on track. I'm alive.

This happened so quick. My disbelieving brain is floating now. I'm not obliterated. _Breathe, Elaine. _

I take an apple and a few tidbits of edible stuff here and there, dazed, not paying much attention to my surroundings. I should, though. What if the Careers come back while I'm standing here in shock? Then I wouldn't be alive anymore.

The dance that I execute is precise, careless no more. I am extremely careful. Cautious.

Then I flee back to the safety of the woods.

Alive.

Not dead.

My near-death experience has rattled me much more greatly than the reality of starving to death or being disemboweled by Knive Girl. _Clove_.

My teeth have just sunken into my apple when the ground shakes and my ears are slapped with the roars of a resounding explosion. I jump, horrified. _The pyramid! Someone triggered it! _Another explosion shakes the ground. Another explosion, and another. I don't dare move: the earth feels unsteady beneath my feet.

As soon as the air is quiet, I hear the Careers' panicked and angry voices call out. I hear someone throwing a furious fit. Someone is yelling and shouting at someone else. Someone else squeals in protest. Then a cannon booms. _Who died? _

Then the gravity of the situation hits me. I can't travel without food. I'm weak enough as it is. I can fill up my canteen at the Lake and attempt to make it on foot until I reach more water. But my chances are over without the pyramid's bounty to scrape off of.

Still, I venture over towards the pyramid when the Careers stomp off. It hits me then: another realization. The Careers aren't in much luck either. In fact, with their well-fed bodies, I can only imagine what shape they'll be in in a few hours. They'll be grumbling and almost helpless, apart from the hope of hunting. Then they'll have to go out and comb the forest for Twelve and whoever's left.

The girl and boy from Eleven are alive still, I know, and according to Cato's claims, Lover Boy's alive but almost dead. He could die any day. So then it'll be seven people left in the Games, including me.

I laugh softly, hope restoring my meager prospects. If the Careers are distracted by their need to hurry up the Games, maybe I'll make it out alive. They don't know where I am.

The charred, smoking ground contains a heap of unsalvageable items along with some interesting lumps. There! A pot and a knife! Mine. If they don't want it and won't poke around any longer looking for supplies, I call dibs on what I find.

My trusty canteen I fill up again and set out. I make it several hundred yards before nightfall sets in, and then I find another clump of bushes. Bushes have proved to be my friends in absence of sleeping bags.

The seal shows Twitch's face. No one else's. The brave person who blew up the supplies is alive. Maybe wounded. I sleep soundly this night.

Morning comes, and it takes me a while to rub my eyes, stretch, and remember where I am. The hope that I had yesterday still lingers, and I can almost forget my (again) growling stomach. I need to keep moving. Keep on the down low.

I drink water and keep walking, keeping my ears alert. My energy level's unusually high for being so hungry and having lost so much weight. _Slow down, Elaine. You'll burn off your adrenaline rush and then where'll you be? Rest a bit. No pyramid to return to, remember?_That annoying, sensible voice in my head is winning out over my careless enthusiasm.

After a couple of hours, I realize that that sensible voice was right. I'm hungry and tired again and my canteen's two-thirds full. I'm wandering along a valley-ish area when I see a stream. Luck. But no purification tablets.

The water tastes fine to me. But I don't fill my canteen-I need to save that water in case I have to make a return trip.

Then I hear something. A cannon shot. I head in the opposite direction. No adventures for me.

The rest of the day is spent in silent misery as my initial burst of hope fades with the rise of the stars and the growls of my stomach. Haven't passed berry bushes yet. Or nut trees.

I find that I've looped a bit and run into the same river, only further down than earlier. It looks peaceful and lovely in the night. I pick a bush and completely conceal myself in its depths, snuggling tightly on the ground with my face obscured in grasses and wildflowers. Can't sleep.

The seal lights up the sky and I sit up and crawl out of my bed. Marvel. The little girl from Eleven. Then the anthem.

Cato. Clove. The boy from Eleven. Lover Boy. The girl on fire. Me. Huh. Interesting that I've made it so far. This evasion strategy's working, apart from the hunger pangs. Well, these _are_the Hunger Games.

My bottomless-seeming stomach wakes me up with the birds, early. I wash my face with river water and experimentally take a couple of sips. The water tastes pure. I try to stab a couple of fish with a stick. No luck.

Shuffle further downstream in my boots. Replaced the grass several days ago. I replace it again now, contemplating my future.

I can keep walking and hope to find berries. I can _not _walk and hope to catch a fish. I can return to the Lake, though that would be pointless. So I start walking, and then a voice peals overhead, announcing something strange.

A Game change? What's Mr. Templesmith saying? _Two _people can win? Ah, well, that's all fine for Districts Two and Twelve. I'm still on my own. I ignore the rest of his announcement and keep walking.

Berries! They're blueberries! No, they're a different type of berry. They're deep purple-red and clustered thickly on slender vines. I don't recognize them. I tentatively pick one and sample it, rolling it around on my tongue for a while before swallowing it. I grab my canteen in case my stomach cramps up. Maybe if I dilute the poison...

But it's not poisonous, so it seems. I cautiously eat more of them. I don't die. Each small berry is the size of my smallest fingernail. Sweet-tart. Juicy. I pick several bunches and place them in my pot. And keep walking.

My future doesn't brighten. It's hot and dry and I find no more nuts. Can't identify any plants other than this weed called Common Plantain. It's dry and stringy and I have a hard time forcing myself to fill my tender stomach with it.

Berries, then heat and no protein. And then I bash my head on a tree limb while I'm exploring a thicket laced with trees and more berry bushes. My head's whirling, but not bleeding. I'll be fine.

I spend a fruitless morning waiting for fish. They come, but not close enough. I can't make nets, I can't swim well. Dispair and bitterness cloud my spirit.

I stab a silver fish. By accident. But it's protein, and it's large! My cramping stomach rejoices. My throbbing head marvels. I eat it raw. Can't cook it; no flint. I toss the entrails into the water along with the fins. I pick my teeth with a bone and then throw away those too.

Claudius Templesmith makes an announcement a couple of days later: there are backpacks waiting for each district at the Cornucopia. Each carries something that we desperately need. What could be in mine? I need a net. I would like a sleeping bag so I don't have to shiver at nights. A box of matches would be appreciated.

What have the Gamemakers decided is my biggest need?

Immediately I head back. I need that pack, whatever's inside of it. The others can hunt and forage. I have to scrape by with what I have.

I spend the rest of the day and evening heading back to the Lake. Throughout my trek I kept glancing over my shoulders and assessing each change in scenery-there might be someone hunting or hiding in the long field grasses. There might be a desperate tribute heading for the Lake like me, both of us unaware that we might meet up on our eager race towards salvation.

I see no one. Apparently we're all oblivious in our attempt to reach the golden horn in time to plan ahead or we're all luckily and happily crashing through the grasses in completely different parts of this Arena. I bet that we're all spread out.

With Lover Boy at large and the Fire Girl hiding out from Cato and Clove, the only one who might directly confront Cato is the other boy from Eleven. The tall one who was very quiet and didn't reply much to Caesar during the interviews. He's scary and big, as big as Cato.

Have I missed anyone? I'm pretty sure that I've kept careful track of who's alive, but I could have made a mistake. My hunger has dulled my wits and all I've thought about it my own survival.

I pass my berry bush on my way towards the Lake and I stuff myself with the fruit. Not protein, but juicy and refreshing. It's twilight now. Crickets are singing. I'd sing too to keep my thoughts from straying to tomorrow. Someone's going to die. We can't all get our precious backpacks.

My plan is simple: make it back to the Lake as fast as possible, sleep in the Cornucopia, and dash out as soon as the backpacks appear. If they're dropped by large parachute, I'll have to run out in the open and snag the one that's mine. If they're not labeled, I'll have to make a sprinting dash for the first one I can grab ahold of and rip it open.

If everyone else has followed my dash towards the packs and everyone has each other's pack on purpose or by accident, I'll have to stick around until my pack's in reach. Can I kill for my pack?

The idea of jumping around for my pack while one of the taller boys holds it out of my reach is stupid. I'd be dead with Clove's knife in me somewhere. Or the Fire Girl's arrow. Cato said that she stole the bow and arrows from one of the Career girls.

Where's Lover Boy? Is he healed? If Fire Girl's found him, they're still a strong team. All she needs to do is off Cato and Eleven, take out Clove, and wait for me to run into range of her arrows. Or starve.

It's a morose trip, making my way back to the Lake with these depressing thoughts. The night's falling quickly and my imagination's running wild with thoughts of me lying facedown, dead. Or rolled over on my side, dead. Or curled around Cato's spear, dying.

Would Clove make my death quick and merciful? Probably not. She was laughing to Cato a few days ago about how she was going to embellish some "designs" on the next tribute she caught. He didn't disagree either, only growling that he wanted to get ahold of the girl from Twelve.

She's got an eleven, Cato. But if she takes you out with her arrows, then all I have to fear is Eleven and Clove.

I've reached the golden horn. I scramble into it, climbing up into it so that I'm not visible from the ground. The horn slopes up like a beautiful Cornucopia's supposed to. It's still slightly warm from the sun but the metal's cooling rapidly. I don't know if I can sleep here. I might slide.

Before bedding down for an uneasy night, I slide down and out of the Cornucopia and drink my fill by the Lake. I wash my hands, my face. Comb my hair. Hide my canteen and pot a few yards inside the forest, away from its edge. When I grab my backpack, I can easily sprint towards the woods and find them. They'll only be a fifty-yard dash from the Cornucopia.

My plan seems reasonable enough, but I can't shake the feeling of unease, of anxiety. What if I oversleep? The horn protects me from wind and if I do fall asleep, provided that I don't slide down accidentally, I'll be a bit warmer than usual. Maybe warm enough to sleep past dawn. I don't know exactly when the backpacks are arriving. I don't know how they're arriving, either.

My worries and fears assail me through the night. I imagine that I hear footsteps, that someone's approaching the Horn. That I'm going to die because I dared to hole myself up in a one-way-exit metal contraption that makes small echoing noises when I plunk it with the edge of my too-large boots or my belt buckle.

I roll over on my side, finding the one position that seems sturdy and secure enough not to send me rolling down into full view. And I sleep, tormented by dreams of falling and skidding and tripping and rolling...

It must be almost dawn. I wake up shivering and taut-muscled, holding myself together with my skinny arms, afraid to move, afraid to venture down the Horn just in case it's too early, in case someone sees me getting ready to make a dive for my pack.

Can't sleep. Am still waiting in the cold morning air. My stomach's making loud burbling noises, a cacophony of warbles and rumbles and gurgles. The berries didn't stay with it long, I can tell. My mouth's dry.

My hair's a mess. To keep myself calm and preoccupied since the backpacks have clearly not arrived yet, I comb my matted mane with my fingers. Ouch. I haven't been taking care of it nearly enough.

My eyes are trained on what bit of visible ground I can see from my vantage point. I can't see much, so I cautiously scoot down and slide a bit until I can see everything in front of the mouth of the Horn in a fifteen-yard radius. I wonder if anyone can see me.

My stomach's still making noises. Is my anxiety leading me to imagine those gurgles bouncing off the walls of the Cornucopia making small rumbles that echo over and over? _No, Elaine, be smart. Your stomach only sounds loud because you're right next to it. _

But I know better. My mind trys to calm me down, but another part of my mind knows that I'm truly hungry and empty. How thin am I now?

My heart starts to beat faster: the sun's rising and dawn's approaching. I'm tense and nauseous. I can imagine my stomach being cleaved open by Cato's sword, my heart stabbed by one of Clove's knives. I can feel Eleven snapping my skinny neck. I can see Fire Girl's arrow flying towards my head. All these images are making me sick and faint. I'm no warrior.

_Click! _A sound of whirring mechanisms accompanies the click. It seems to come from the ground in front of the Horn's mouth. I see the ground open and something broad and flat rise up. I see lumps...backpacks!

Four backpacks. One's small and orange-is that mine? No, it's labeled with a large "twelve." The large one? No: District 2. And Eleven's backpack, also large.

My eyes take this all in in an instant: they're almost immediately trained upon a medium-sized green backpack. _5..._it reads. Mine. All mine.

The table's almost in place. It rises up slowly, the ground becoming solid and trustworthy under its shade. _Click_. This final click is my signal.

Without hesitation I charge out of the Cornucopia. Hug the green backpack to my chest. Take off running towards my pot and canteen. Sling the pack over my shoulder. Dash for the woods. Retrieve my supplies. Keep running. Head for where I know the river's located.

I can't sustain a run beyond the forest line. I slow to a jog after repositioning my knife in my belt and picking up my berry-stained pot. My canteen.

A cannon shot breaks the calm of the tranquil forest shade. Fire Girl's? Cato's? I'll find out tonight. We all will.

I walk until I reach the first bend in the river. As soon as I see the water, I halt and look around. No one's in sight. I wait a few minutes to be sure. Then I drink.

My backpack's dusty from my shuffling jog. Opening it, I find two round, puffy loaves of Capitol bread. Not the tessarae-grained stuff. I see a package labeled "Jerk-E." It weighs what I think is a half of a pound. So much. I immediately start opening it, carefully portioning out the dark, pungent meat. Three days' worth of meat if I'm careful? The loaves are the size of my hand from beginning of wrist to middle finger's tip. They'll last two days at most.

Searching the rest of the pack, I find a small blanket. Nothing else. But that's alright. What I have is enough to last me four days if I can find nuts and berries.

But then the Gamemakers send down rain. Lots of it. I spend my days huddled under the broadest-leafed bushes and shrubs I can find. The bread doesn't get moldy because it's in the backpack, which is waterproof. The jerky comforts me a bit, because I to to pretend that I'm putting on more weight because of the protein. But I know that my arms are skinnier. Each day, it seems. And my wrists are _bony_.

A couple more days of this, and I'm still drenched. My bread's gone. I have some dried meat left, but I'm trying to outlast the rain and gather some berries and maybe even those nasty common plantain leaves. And what are called Miner's Lettuce plants, according to the Training Center plant expert.

I survey the grey sky and dripping surroundings. I fold up my blanket and leave it in my backpack. My backpack stays under the broad-leafed bushes while I scamper about looking for anything edible.

The rain soaks me and washes away all of the grime not covered by short-sleeved shirt and pants. I left my jacket in my pack as well, reasoning that a soaked garment won't do much good other than hold the cold closer to me. My hair's in my face. In my eyes. I wipe my streaming strands out of my eyes. I blink. And I see myself in a puddle's reflection.

Help us all. I look deranged. My hair's flying about in the crazy wind and rain, my thin face has angles that stick out, making me look wary and dangerous. My eyes are hungry and gleaming with some strange fire. My right hand's clutching a knife. My thin legs are planted firmly, slightly bent. I'm a bit hunched, glaring into the puddle. I look like a starving scrap of a tribute. Feral.

I force myself to look away from the puddle. Ignore the mud on my pants. Ignore my pale arms.

_Chin up, Elaine. Survive this._

The rain continues. I trudge through the mud and strip off what few berries I can find that I know are edible. Some berries have already been blown off into the sodden dirt. I stoop down and collect them. All of them. I rinse them off by holding my hands out to the rain before dumping the dripping berries into my bucket.

_Beggars can't be choosers. _

Thank-you, Rylla. Even now, at my most cold and miserable, I can hear your voice lecturing me. Me, the dreamy one. The one with the overactive imagination who used to dream up horror stories to tell around midnight to her pet cat. Her pet feral cat.

I can't help myself. I devour the berries as I make my way back to my bush. I scarf down the last bit of the dried meat. I lick my fingers and daydream about food. Pull out my jacket. Put it on. Wrap my half-dry blanket around my shaking form and fall asleep. My dreams are about wind and rain and lightening.

_**BOOM! **_I wake up instantly, disorientated. I sit up. My blanket slides off of my shoulders. I clutch at it and wrap it around me again. It's thoroughly wet. Blast.

Lightning flashes and I hear my sister's voice sing her annoying lightning song in my ear. _Lightning heavy, lightning light, flash of thunder, thunder might, rouse the birds and shake their tree, lightning's all that you can see._I used to think that it was a dumb song. Now I'm the bird, shaken and worried.

Mama always held me during lightning and thunder. Elaine's stuck hugging herself this time. I duck my head and pull my wet blanket around me anyway, gritting my teeth and singing Rylla's lightning song that she sang when she was six years old.

"Lightning heavy, lightning light," I begin. My throat's sore. My nose is running. I cast aside the wet blanket. "Flash of thunder..." my head's starting to hurt. My sinuses are plugged up. I'm too cold to move. Wet and cold. Am I hypothermic?

Time passes.

…

…

…

I wake up aching. My throat's painfully sore and swollen. My forehead's hot. But there's no rain. The sun's shining. I hate the Gamemakers. I'm in a foul mood: sick and drenched and sore and hungry.

The sun dries me up by midday. Too weak and stiff to do anything, I walk back in forth trying to loosen things up. _Work your arms slowly. Rub your legs. Bend forward at the waist. Crouch and hold the position. _By late afternoon, I'm in less pain, though my head's pounding.

I hear voices. Two people are coming towards this part of the woods. I scramble backwards. They don't see me-they're slowly walking towards the riverbank. Lover Boy. Fire Girl.

They're alive. She has her bow strung. He's drawn and pale. They're talking. It seems that she wants him to stay on the riverbank while she looks around. He nods and sets out food on a nice plate. That basket. Someone is really looking out for them.

She leaves. I stay. He's watching the trees, the bushes, but gets up, to my surprise. I don't think he's armed. Maybe he thinks he'll be safer with Fire Girl. _I'd _feel safer with her if she were on my team. She's smart and strong; she's survived this far with cunning and guts. It'll be tough to take her out.

Lover Boy circles the area a bit and then wanders downstream. I wait for a minute. He's oblivious to my presence. When I can no longer see his blonde head bobbing over the bushes or hear his heavy steps, I tiptoe over towards the food. It's laid out on a small square of cloth. _Some crazy wealthy sponsor_, I think.

A small cheese sits by itself. It's mouthwatering. I haven't had fresh cheese since my birthday. Mama bought it for me. It was salty and sweet and creamy.

Lover Boy's footsteps sound in the distance. I leap back towards the bushes. I watch from a distance of less than nine yards, hidden in a red-leafed bush. _Better for my hair, _I think distractedly. That cheese seems to be blotting everything else out of my vision. Yes, I'm desperate.

He leaves after gently setting down a handful of dark, round berries next to the cheese. Berries! I had seen those kind on a bush while I was searching in the rain, but not knowing if they were poisonous or not, I had left them on their branches. It's good to know that they're edible, though. Thank-you, Lover Boy.

Still no trace of Fire Girl. I come out of my leafy hideaway and walk over quietly to the food. My hand reaches out to the cheese. I so want to swipe the entire thing and cram it in my mouth. I tell myself to take only a little bit. A small mouthful. Maybe she'll think that Lover Boy's double-crossing her.

I take five or six round berries. Pitiful snack, but at the rate my stomach's clenching and unclenching, maybe the food won't stay _down_.

Cheese and berries in my left hand, I tiptoe back to my backpack. I move all of my belongings to a plot of grass about twenty yards from the river.

_Keep moving, Elaine. They might decide to move on further. She's armed. He's not. He's tall. She's wiry. _

I don't want to move on. My stomach's not cramping anymore. I test out my sore throat with some water. I can swallow slowly and carefully. Good.

I eat half of the cheese, savoring the flavor. The taste brings back memories of my smiling mother and sister as they sang the birthday song to me. That day was golden. Like the rays that gently shine on my back.

The berries. They'd taste good with the cheese. Mama always ate this creamy white cheese with blueberries.

I push two berries into the center of the last bit of cheese. Dark blue-black. Pretty.

They taste good-they're sweet and juicy, juicier than the other berries I found. They taste like summer and laughter and joy and something unusual. Something different. Not berry-like. Richer and deeper. I swallow and reach for another.

My arm goes limp and I see Rylla's face before a curtain of black obscures her gold-green eyes.


End file.
